


Sparks

by servantofclio



Series: Rory and Simon Trevelyan [8]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-01-16 07:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: The attraction is immediate, and obvious, no matter how inappropriate it may be.A collection of Inquisitor Trevelyan/Dorian Pavus ficlets, mostly on the fluffy side.





	1. Cure for a broken heart

**Author's Note:**

> Assorted ficlets, mostly posted to tumblr at various points over the last few years, often in response to prompts. These are not particularly in chronological order or anything like that.
> 
> Simon Trevelyan is a sword-and-shield warrior, and his twin Rory, an agender mage, is also present in this continuity. You can find out more about them and their backstory in the related fic Tome and Shield.

Dorian falls in love far too easily. One of his weaknesses, he's well aware. Oh, it can be an advantage at times, when he falls for a project rather than a person, but the string of infatuations behind him, more numerous than even Felix knows, is testimony to the hazards of the tendency. 

Some of those were harmless enough, passing fancies that came to nothing. Others were cheerfully enough concluded after a few bouts of flirtation and a delightful night or two. Others, now... others remain painful to consider, so on the whole, Dorian doesn’t. Except on those rare occasions when some particular scent or the tone of a stranger’s voice happens to remind him. For the most part, those old affairs remain safely locked away in memory.

Somewhere along the road from Redcliffe to Haven, it occurs to Dorian that this Trevelyan stands to be a serious hazard indeed. 

He makes, at first, an excellent distraction from the myriad of things Dorian would prefer not to think about: from Alexius in chains at the back of the party, from Felix’s haunted eyes as he said farewell, from the ravaged future he and Trevelyan recently escaped from, from how Father—

No, _really_ best not to think about that. Far better to flash a smile and watch these self-proclaimed rebel mages whisper to each other in mingled fascination and dread, sidling away as if being Tevinter were catching. Far better to keep an eye on Trevelyan, who seems tireless, urging the march along, hefting his shield and armor as if they weigh nothing. He has a smile and a cheery word for nearly everyone as he moves up and down the line of march. Dorian has seen him shaken; what they saw, in that future that shall not come, would have shaken anyone. Now, he seems unperturbed by the roughness of the road or the coldness of the weather or the long, straggling line of sorry rebels complaining about both those things. 

He also makes a point of catching Dorian’s eye and smiling every time he passes, and stops once or twice a day to chat for a few minutes. The first night, he steers Dorian over to his own campfire for the evening meal, with the Inquisition scouts and the elf girl and the qunari, and that becomes the routine. The second night they’re all on dried trail rations, Trevelyan remarks, “I could really use that fruit basket about now,” and smirks, brown eyes practically twinkling, and Dorian’s heart nearly skips a beat.

Oh, yes, Simon Trevelyan could be quite a problem. 

_Just stop_ , Dorian tells himself. This is the south, and he has only the slightest idea how to maneuver here. Among his own, he knows how to read subtle glances and gestures, how to take the measure of who might be interested -- none of that can be assumed here, in the cold reaches of the south. On top of that, the man is the Herald of Andraste, or one of them, and Dorian surely poses quite the political problem to _him_ already, doesn’t he?

But he falls in love too easily, and _just stop_ has never worked before. It might be the more prudent course to leave, but where, exactly, does he have to go?

Leaving won't fix the hole in the sky, either, and that problem is far too fascinating to pass up out of nerves.

No, he’ll simply have to ride this one out, and hope the heartbreak isn’t too dire in the end.


	2. Haven Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early relationship banter and sizing each other up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the brief window of time between returning from Redcliffe (after In Hushed Whispers) and closing the Breach.

“This is a truly appalling habit you’ve developed, Herald.”

Simon paused on hearing Dorian Pavus’s voice coming from the steps of one of the nearby cabins, once sheltering pilgrims and now housing the Inquisition’s assorted guests. Simon had been making his way up to the Chantry from the training yard, toward the quarters he shared with Rory, but he stopped, smiling at the sight of Dorian yawning and wrapped in a cloak. Obviously a borrowed one, shabbier and more homespun than Dorian’s usual style.

“What habit is that?” he asked.

“ _Mornings_ ,” Dorian said, with distaste. “Here I am, rising at a barely reasonable hour —”

“It’s halfway to mid-day,” Simon pointed out.

“— and here you are, coming back _up_ the hill, as if you’ve been out and about for hours already.”

Simon laughed. “It’s good to get in some training early, I find.” The mornings were pleasantly peaceful, as it happened. Fewer people about to ask him to do things, or give him those awed stares that made him twitch. Besides, these days he often found himself sleeping restlessly and waking early — the mark, maybe, and the peculiar dreams it sometimes brought — and getting up to whack training dummies for an hour or two did wonders to settle his nerves. Most mornings, he found Seeker Pentaghast there already, and sometimes they sparred, which was always bracing.

“See, there you go again. _Early_. What a terrible word.”

Simon crooked an eyebrow. “I could just as well suggest you were an irresponsible layabout.”

Dorian gasped in mock indignation. “Perish the thought! ... though I won’t claim it’s never been said before. Lies and calumny, I tell you.”

“Didn’t you just say you were only rising now?” Simon asked, moving closer.

“Well, yes, but that’s not the real issue.”

“And what is the real issue?”

“The real issue is, when did I _retire_ for the night, and that was...” Dorian squinted into the air. “... possibly closer to dawn than to midnight.”

Simon chuckled. “Then I suppose I should commend you on rising before noon.”

“I thought so, yes.” Dorian folded his arms, looking rather pleased with himself.

“What in Andraste’s name had you up so late, anyway?”

“Well, _that_ , obviously.” Dorian glanced up at the Breach, shining malevolently in the sky. “I had a thought or two that I wanted to chase down, but the books here are proving rather limited. What I wouldn’t give for a proper magical library.”

“Shall I add some tomes to our list? We can look for them in between all the demon-fighting.” They already recovered all the books they could find, in any case, hauling them up the mountain with a certain amount of swearing at the weight. The Circles’ libraries had ended up scattered in the rebellion, and you could find the oddest things stashed in out-of-the-way huts. As far as Simon could tell, this was Rory’s favorite part of being out in the field.

“Yes, that would be a great help, if you’d be so kind, Herald.”

Simon smiled. “I’ve already told you to call me Simon.”

“No need to stand on ceremony, I see.”

Simon shrugged. “Not after what we’ve been through.”

“Mmm. Indeed.” Dorian drew the cloak a little tighter about himself. “Very well, then. Simon.” He said the last almost meditatively, in a way which made something warm settle in Simon’s chest.

He said, to distract himself, “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Dorian.”

Their eyes met for a long moment. The corner of Dorian’s mouth turned up, and Simon answered with a smile of his own.

All right, he wasn’t distracting himself very well.

A cold breeze whipped through the clearing around them, breaking the moment. Dorian scowled, shivering and tugging on the cloak. “Why is so beastly cold around here, anyway?”

Simon shrugged. After a couple hours of training, he found the breeze more refreshing than anything else. “Something about the mountain, I hear? And the season, and being so far south...”

“Very funny. It’s even colder after midnight, I’ll have you know.”

“Can’t you conjure fire?”

“You’d think that would be sufficient, but it only does so much good. This hovel is intolerably drafty.”

“What a shame. We’ll have to come up with some other way to keep you warm, then.”

“Oh, will you now?” Dorian asked with a lilt in his voice. “I could think of a few ways.”

Yes, that did rather suggest a few methods, didn’t it? Simon shot him a smile. “It’s quite warm in the tavern, you know. And there’s food. I’m sure hot food would do you some good.”

“Porridge,” Dorian said scathingly. “I suppose they do also have something that passes for drinkable.”

Simon clicked his tongue. “For breakfast? Tsk.”

“I’ve had worse.” Dorian straightened and came down the cabin’s steps. “Care to join me?”

Simon had been planning to head up to his and Rory’s shared room, but he didn’t mind changing his plan, and fell in beside Dorian. “How’s the research going, anyway?”

“Well, your apostate has a plausible enough plan to fix our little problem, though he’s a little vague on how he came by the idea. One of his Fade spirits, I daresay. And your twin’s very clever.”

“Rory? Of course they are,” Simon said, obscurely pleased by the praise.

“Some interesting theories about the manipulation of magical energies. It must help to have first-hand knowledge, so to speak.”

Simon snorted at the joke. He made to elbow Dorian in the side, and checked himself at the last moment.

“It’ll be key to pulling all of this in the same direction, I do believe. Most of your southern mages don’t seem so, hm, scholarly. Excepting perhaps Madame de Fer, of course.”

“And what do you think of Lady Vivienne?” Simon asked, curious. He knew Rory respected her greatly, though Simon couldn’t help but be wary of her deftness at political maneuvering.

Dorian chuckled. “She’d make an excellent magister. She can make people quail before her with an eyebrow twitch, that one. Highly skilled, as well. You also have me, of course, so there’s a great deal of magical talent here. I like our chances.”

“Glad to hear you think so,” Simon said, amused.

“I could wish for a more elegant plan than simply hurling a lot of power through your marks, that’s a bit blunt-force for my tastes, but it should get the job done. I suppose that’s what matters most.”

Simon winced; he’d just as soon not have the reminder that the whole plan hinged on channeling all that power through his hand. In only a few days, too. It made him a little queasy, since there seemed a quite decent chance of him or Rory or both of them getting blown up in the process. “I admit I’m not looking forward to that part.”

“Don’t worry.” Dorian flashed him a dazzling smile. “I’ll take care of you.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “You said that before.”

“Yes, and I did, didn’t I?” Dorian spread his arms. “Here we are, in the time and place we belong. Well. Excepting that it’s a frozen little backwater, of course.”

“Thank you,” Simon said dryly. “I rather think I stopped a few of those guards from skewering you, as well.”

“And very intimidating you were, too! Don’t think I’m not grateful.” Dorian’s eyes sparkled as he gave Simon an appreciative look.

They stopped outside the tavern door. A clatter of voices and the smell of something cooking wafted out. Glancing around for observers, Simon said, “I trust no one’s been giving you trouble here.”

“No need to fret. I can handle a few suspicious glances,” Dorian said lightly.

“As long as that’s all it is.” Simon was responsible for Dorian, after all. He’d invited him here, and after what they’d been through together, he didn’t want to see him hurt or harassed. Dorian deserved better than that, after what he’d done for the Inquisition already. He’d made that point several times, and the Inquisition leadership seemed prepared to be polite, but he wasn’t sure about the rest of the camp.

Dorian laughed. “So protective! Never fear, I _can_ take care of myself.”

Simon crossed his arms, embarrassed at his own odd protective urges. Obviously Dorian could defend himself. “I know that. I only wanted to make sure no one’s causing you difficulties.”

“I’m touched,” Dorian said, smiling, before his expression turned serious. “There’s really nothing to worry about. No one likes a Tevinter, but I dare hope I’ve won a certain measure of respect, at least.”

Simon huffed, unsatisfied. “You’ve done more than enough to earn some trust.” He’d long since lost track of the number of times he’d made that very argument. “If anyone does become difficult...”

“I should come running to you, then?” The smile was back, a small, warm thing rather than one of the ones meant to dazzle.

Simon smiled back in spite of himself. He really was being ridiculous. He’d gotten attached, while they were floundering around in the future, he supposed. “People do listen to me sometimes.”

“Perhaps they ought to more often,” Dorian said brightly.

“Breakfast,” Simon suggested, jerking his head toward the tavern door. The last thing he needed was Dorian joining the chorus of those “suggesting” he take some sort of command.

“That’s a much better word than _early_ , I’ll grant you that,” Dorian said, reaching for the door. “Care to join me?”

Simon hesitated, then shrugged. He’d already breakfasted, but going a few rounds with Cassandra Pentaghast did tend to work up an appetite. “After you,” he said with an exaggerated bow.


	3. Give me one good reason

“Come on, give me one good reason not to jump in the lake,” Simon Trevelyan said. “Anyone?”

“Because effin’ stinky corpses were crawling out of it just yesterday?” Sera suggested. 

“That was yesterday. And that was the big lake, not this little pond.” 

Sera sniffed. “Bad water’s bad water.” 

“It’s cold and wet, which is bad enough,” Varric put in. 

“Cold and wet is the _point_ ,” Simon said. “Not one of _you_ has been tromping around in heavy armor all day.” 

Dorian had to admit Simon had a point about that. Once the sun had come out, the weather in Crestwood had grown quite warm. Delightfully balmy, in Dorian’s opinion, not nearly as hot as Qarinus would be in this season, but the sun was blazing quite splendidly all the same. They’d been searching the hills all day and still not caught even a glimpse of a Grey Warden. When they’d paused for a breather, Simon had yanked his helmet off to reveal sweat-matted hair, and was now staring at the pond longingly. 

“You’ve no idea how deep it is,” Rory Trevelyan added. 

Simon shrugged. “Doesn’t much matter. I can swim. Come on, is that the best you’ve got?” 

Out of some perverse impulse, Dorian said, “There’s also whatever the local rustics and their livestock have been putting into the pond.” 

Sera wrinkled her nose. “Eww.” 

“I changed my mind,” Varric said. “ _That’s_ reason enough.” 

“Well, it _looks_ clean, and it’s beastly hot out here,” Simon said. “The druffalo drink out of it, it can’t be that bad.” And with that, he dropped his helmet. 

“I don’t know if I’d take the authority of a druffalo,” Varric said, and Sera put in, “There’s wyverns or something around, yeah?” but Simon was clearly past paying attention to any of them. 

He managed, in fact, to shed his armor and its padding remarkably quickly, as most of the rest of the party groaned and protested. Dorian, however, found that all his impetus to provide objections dried up completely as Simon stripped himself down to shirt and breeches and started running. 

“Simon!” Rory called out to their twin one last time, exasperated. 

There was no help for it, though; Simon plunged in without heeding, and within a few steps, ducked under the surface of the water entirely. He was invisible for a long, stretched-out moment, during which Dorian caught himself holding his breath. 

“And thus ended the Inquisition,” Varric said philosophically. “Not much of a story, really, but—” 

Before he could finish, Simon broke the surface with a great gasp of air and a sigh. “This is perfect,” he called out, and Dorian froze, his attention completely caught as Simon shook the water out of his hair, his linen shirt soaking wet and outlining every muscle. 

“Close your mouth, Sparkler,” Varric murmured, as Sera shouted out, “You’re daft! Things live in that!” 

“Yes, but consider this,” Simon called back. “I don’t care- whoops!” He ducked under again, abruptly. Sera let out a little shriek, which turned into a growl when Simon came back up laughing. “No sea monsters!” he called. “Or pond monsters!” 

“Shut it, that wasn’t funny!” Sera shouted back. Varric was chuckling, though, and Rory was shaking their head with a tolerant smile. 

And Dorian might as well enjoy the show, surely.


	4. Caught in a Storm

Simon Trevelyan loiters under a tree somewhere in the forests of the Storm Coast, eating an apple. There’s a fine mist in the air, barely noticeable in the constant damp of the region. 

Simon turns the apple in his hand, tosses it from one hand to the other, and takes another bite. He’d left the Inquisition camp a quarter of an hour ago, announcing that he was going to wash up in the stream a short distance away. It was, in Simon’s opinion, an unnecessary bit of subterfuge, as he is fairly sure that hardly anyone buys it and even fewer would care, but it seems to set Dorian’s mind at rest, so there it is. 

And here comes Dorian now, striding quickly down the path, having made some vaguely plausible excuse in Simon’s absence. Simon takes the last bite of apple, tosses the core to the side, and steps out of the tree’s shade, smiling. “There you are,” he says. 

“Oh,” Dorian says in mock surprise. “Why, Inquisitor, fancy meeting you here.” 

“Fancy that, indeed. It’s almost as if it were planned that way.” 

“Perish the thought,” Dorian murmurs. 

They have closed the distance much more than needed for conversation. Simon eliminates the last distance and leans in for a kiss. 

This is still new enough to be intoxicating, the last few weeks’ dance of banter and flirtation turned to this heady warmth of lips and tongues. They have been out of Skyhold for over a week, and this is the first moment truly alone they’ve managed to find in that time. 

Naturally, this is precisely when the downpour begins. 

# 

It’s all very annoying. One moment Dorian is having a perfect, promising kiss, and the next moment the heavens have opened up and inundated. Dorian gasps at the shock of it, exactly as if someone had emptied a barrel of cold water over his head, except it doesn’t _stop_ , but simply keeps coming, roaring as it falls through the trees. 

And Simon Trevelyan, damn him, is _laughing_ , while Dorian makes an undignified furious noise and stares at him through the drenching rain. 

“Well,” Simon says, “I suppose they do call it the _Storm_ Coast.” 

“You’re appalling,” Dorian tells him. He has to raise his voice over the roar of the rain. 

Simon laughs again and tugs Dorian into the shelter of a tree. Here, it merely feels like a normal rainfall instead of a deluge, but it hardly matters, since they’re both soaked already. Dorian’s wet clothes hang heavily from his shoulders. When he wipes his face, black streaks come off on his hands. His hair has to be a wreck. This was supposed to be altogether a different sort of moment. Dorian swears under his breath. 

Simon smooths his wet hair behind his ears. “You look—” 

“Like a drowned rat?” Dorian snaps, disgusted and shivering. 

“I was going to say, rather adorable.” 

Dorian gives up fussing over his hair and stares again. “How can you possibly be enjoying this? It’s cold and wet—” 

Simon shrugs. “I was meant to be bathing in the stream anyway,” he says. “Come over here and I’ll keep you warm.” 

They’re both soaked and smell of wet leather, but if that’s the offer, how can Dorian refuse?


	5. Under the stars and in the grass

“Faugh,” said Simon. “I’m going to smell of smoke and corpses _forever_.” 

“And very enticing it isn’t.” Dorian sat down beside Simon anyway. His breath whistled out between his teeth, but that was the only thing that betrayed the day's fatigue. Simon himself had flopped down onto the grassy earth with a groan, and didn’t intend to move until it was crucially necessary, like, perhaps, if a rift opened up that he couldn’t reach from his current location. 

Fighting and burning their way through the stark ruins of the Exalted Plains took a lot out of a person. 

“Aren’t you used to it?” Simon asked, staring up at the darkening sky. “I thought corpses were, you know, your thing.” 

“Magical manipulation of mental and physical energies, some of which are particularly associated with dead bodies, _that’s_ my thing. Or at least, something in the nature of a specialty. And it is, by the way, an arcane and technical art insufficiently practiced outside of Nevarra, and the Nevarrans tend to be overly conservative about it because of their reverence for the bodies in question. But I’m not sure I like what else you may be insinuating, my dear Inquisitor.” 

Simon snickered. “I’m not insinuating anything.” He hadn’t, in fact, meant anything in the way of innuendo, though it amused him that Dorian insisted upon finding some even after a day of fighting through haunted ramparts and burning battered corpses. 

“You can’t believe everything you hear about decadent Tevinter parties, you know. Just… a considerable portion of it.” 

“People don’t dance wearing nothing but snakes, then?” 

“Oh, no, _that_ I’ve seen. Atharia Karthinos was really quite fetching with a snake around her shoulders, all things considered.” 

Simon snorted at the image and folded his hands behind his head. “And what about you?” 

“Why, would you like that?” 

“I’d prefer not to have snakes in the bedroom, thanks.” The animals were all well and good in their place, Simon supposed, but that place was firmly _outside_ , as far as he was concerned. 

Dorian chuckled. “Duly noted. I’ll cross that one off the list, then.” 

The sun was down now, leaving only a last glow on the horizon. The moons hadn’t risen yet, and the stars were emerging, dots of light across a darkness overhead as vast and wide as any Simon had ever seen. It was oddly soothing to feel so small and insignificant, especially after the travails of the day. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” 

“Oh, I can think of quite a few things,” Dorian said lightly. 

Simon smiled and reached out to catch Dorian’s hand. Dorian tensed, but only for a moment. They were on the fringe of the camp, everyone else occupied with chores, and darkness provided discretion enough. 

They lingered there for some time, watching the stars come out.


	6. Domestic

Dorian claimed not to have a domestic bone in his body. Simon Trevelyan was skeptical.

For when Dorian settled in a place, he _settled_. Even the little cabin in Haven that he’d occupied for a matter of weeks quickly bore his mark, filling up with books and hoarded blankets and a spare staff or two. His corner in the library at Skyhold rapidly became surrounded by stacks of books arranged just so (Simon had once seen Dorian chew out a hapless mage who had dared to borrow one of the books and disarrange the stacks while Dorian was away in the Hinterlands; Fiona had had to intervene), along with an assortment of paper and pens and wax tablets for note-taking, a lute somebody had gifted the Inquisition, and usually a half-filled tea cup. When the weather grew colder, a quilt appeared out of somewhere, casually draped over the chair, as if Dorian would never dream of actually wrapping up in such a humble item. 

The same thing happened once he started spending more time in Simon’s quarters. Simon himself cared little enough for decor, and had cheerfully let Josephine and Leliana choose the hangings for the halls below. With Dorian more often in his quarters, though, things accumulated: books, a case of scented oils, combs, razors, and mirrors; another lute; cushions for the furniture; yet more quilts (even with a fireplace, the room got drafty); spare cloaks and shirts and odds and ends of jewelry.

“You have more things up here than I do,” Simon said to Dorian once. Simon had gotten used to traveling light over the last few years, and when it came down to it, there weren’t that many objects he valued highly enough to keep.

“Yes, well,” Dorian replied. “If you’re not going to use the space, why should it go to waste?” 

This was a fair point. From his position lounging on the couch, surrounded by pillows and blankets and with a pot of tea near at hand, Simon could hardly complain.

Besides, he didn’t want Dorian to go anywhere else.


	7. Chapter 7

There had been a rousing debate, as they walked, as to what the worst thing about the Fallow Mire was: was it the chill? the wet? the ever-present gloom? or perhaps the barbarians, or the putrefying corpses that wandered out of the swamp to attack them? 

Dorian concluded, however, that the worst thing about the Fallow Mire was that you could step off the path without even realizing it. 

He came to this conclusion, naturally, at the moment that it happened. All it took was one step, and instead of halfway solid (if decidedly spongy) ground, his foot found – nothing. His foot simply went down and down through the wet and muck, and the rest of him, off-balance, followed. He hadn’t even the time to shout before he took a header into the silty water, thick with sand and Maker knew what else. 

There was no bottom to it, nothing solid at all to brace against. Dorian could do no more than flail wildly, limbs sloshing through the viscous muck – he thought it might even be sucking him down, he remembered reading of such things – and then his head broke the surface, and he gasped in the precious air, no matter how fetid it was. 

At that point, a pair of huge hands seized his arm in a bruising grip and yanked, quickly followed by a smaller pair on his other arm, and together they hauled him free of the mire with a disgustingly obscene sucking sound, and Dorian sprawled gasping on the welcome, if relative, solidity of the path, coughing out the – frankly, he didn’t want to think about it. 

“Eeeeuuuughhhh,” came Sera’s voice, high-pitched and loud. “What, you can fall right off the path into that rot? No thank you. Ground is supposed to be ground!” 

Dorian had never agreed with her so fervently in his life. He turned to the side and spat, wiping frantically at his face. “Kaffas,” he gasped. “I hate the south. I hate the wet. I hate this fucking mire—” 

His litany was cut off when Simon placed a hand on either side of his face and kissed him on the mouth, hard and quick. Dorian stared at him, appalled. “Simon. I’m _filthy_.” 

“But not drowning,” Simon replied. “Don’t scare me like that again.” He stood and offered Dorian an arm up. “Let’s get you back to camp so we can get you dried off.” 

Dorian realized with horror, as he gained his feet, that he was unlikely to get a proper bath until they got back to Skyhold. But Simon gave him a brief, firm hug before they set off, awkward though it was in their armor, and – 

the south did have its compensations, after all.


	8. Delicate Pleasures

When Leliana handed Simon the box, she merely said, “Give this to Dorian. He asked for this.”

“All right,” Simon said warily, “and there’s some reason you can’t take it down the stairs?”

She gave him one of those looks that said he was being exceptionally dense, and said, “Please. He’d rather have it from you.”

Simon rolled his eyes, and then noticed— “The box has been opened.”

“Yes,” she said. “I already took my cut.”

“Your— all right,” Simon said, deciding he didn’t want to know. “Yes. Good.”

She smiled sweetly and waved a hand at him as she returned to her desk. “Go on now.”

There was, Simon found, a note attached to the box.

_Dorian,_

_As you requested. Cassandra would have it that this was a waste of the Inquisition’s resources, but she doesn’t have much patience for such indulgences. I have claimed five percent of the contents as payment for my efforts. Lest you think Josephine might give you a better deal, I assure you she would have taken ten percent._

_Leliana_

Simon found Dorian in his usual chair and said, “I have no idea what this is, but I’m told to give it to you, and it may have been a waste of Inquisition resources.”

“What—ah!” Dorian sprang out of the chair and seized the box. “I assure you, this is no waste! Oh, what’s this?” He frowned at the note for a moment, and then tossed it to the side. “Yes, yes, pleasure doing business with you, Nightingale,” he called in a voice pitched to carry to the upper floor. A couple of the other mages using the library frowned in their direction, but Dorian ignored them.

“But what is it?” Simon demanded, crossing his arms. “I can’t help the sense that I just passed on some sort of illegal substance.”

“Nonsense, not illegal at all, merely costly and difficult to get—ah.” Dorian tipped the cover off the box, releasing the scent of sugar, roses, lemon, and nuts, and revealing an array of pastel-colored morsels with, yes, a few conspicuous empty spaces in the top layer.

“What—” Simon began.

Dorian plucked a piece out of the box and offered it before Simon could finish his sentence. Dubiously, Simon accepted it, and—oh. Sweet, decadently sweet, almost too sweet, and chewy, and fragrant with roses, delicate and rich all at once.

“We call it Rivaini delight in Minrathous,” Dorian said, watching his reaction avidly.

Simon chewed and swallowed, the taste of sugar lingering on his tongue. “We do in the Marches, as well,” he said. He’d had it only a few times as a child, while visiting a doting aunt. “It’s something of a rare treat, though.”

“For us as well,” Dorian said, popping a piece into his mouth and closing his eyes.

Simon raised an eyebrow as Dorian hummed in pleasure, and waited until he’d finished before saying, “And you had some shipped all the way down here? No wonder Cassandra thought it was a waste.”

“Perish the thought,” Dorian said. “It’s vital for morale.”

“Whose morale?”

“My morale, obviously.” Dorian considered. “And possibly the Nightingale’s.”

“I thought I improved your morale,” Simon said.

“Oh, you do,” Dorian said, smiling. “And if you’re very good, I might let you have some more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rivaini delight is the same confection as Turkish delight, only no Turks in Thedas, so there we go.


	9. Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing the Dead Hand puzzle in the Exalted Plains and it seemed to me that the companions really should have had things to say about all my failed attempts to solve the puzzle.

The sculpted stone archer fired, and the glowing blue shot fizzled out against the pillar. Again.

“That’s all right,” Dorian called out. “We’ll have that sorted out on our next attempt!”

“Everyone, stay where you are,” Rory added. “Just give us a moment to figure things out!”

“Oh, come onnnn,” Sera whined. “Why are we mucking about with this elfy puzzle shite? Whatever treasure’s in there can’t be worth all the effort!”

The two mages both ignored her. Simon could see the two of them bending their heads together to discuss the situation in low voices. The light of the dim cavern glinted off Rory’s spectacles. There was a lot of gesturing and pointing, most of it done by Dorian, though Rory kept nodding intensely.

Sera groaned out loud and then blew a raspberry in their general direction.

Cassandra drew close to Simon and said in a low voice, “Inquisitor, she has a point. Is the gain really worth the time we are spending?”

Simon had asked himself the same question about five times since they’d descended the ladder into this cave and found some sort of magical contraption guarding a locked room. Left to his own devices, he would have poked at the thing for a few minutes and then climbed back up again.

Rory and Dorian had both lit up at the sight of the thing, though, and were only emboldened when they’d managed to get one of the magical globes to light up fairly quickly. Both of them had worn looks of barely concealed glee.

“Let’s just… give them another try or two,” Simon said to Cassandra.

She sighed and gave him a disapproving look. He attempted a charming smile in return. She didn’t seem that charmed.

“I’m just saying,” Varric muttered from Simon’s other side. “You start off fiddling around with ancient magical puzzles, and the next thing you know, you’ve released an ancient maniacal darkspawn who wants to conquer the world.”

Cassandra made a noise in her throat. She could be remarkably eloquent without using any actual words.

“Yes, thank you for those encouraging sentiments, Varric,” Simon said.

“Just saying.”

“I think we’ve got it this time,” Dorian called. “Sera, if you’d be so good as to light that torch over there—”

She stuck out her tongue and dragged her feet, but she went, shouting, “You’d better be right this time!”

“—and Cassandra, if you’d kindly turn that wheel, yes, there, thank you!”

“And Simon,” Rory added, “just stand there and pull that lever when I tell you to.”

Varric was evidently left to his own devices this time, and stood shaking his head. Simon took his assigned place, watching as Rory and Dorian ran to their own stations. Both of them were obviously enjoying themselves. _How_ , Simon wondered. How was it that his twin and his lover were _both_ obsessed with puzzles and arcane minutiae? 


	10. Morning kiss

Dorian startles awake when someone touches his shoulder and says “good morning” in the vicinity of his ear. It takes him a bewildered moment to figure out where he is and what has happened. Everything aches, particularly his neck and shoulders. His mouth tastes dire. There’s something heavy in his lap, and something else is poking into his ankle, and morning sun is slanting from an unexpected direction. 

“Did you fall asleep right here in the chair?” 

He did, Dorian realizes. He fell asleep in the library sometime after midnight, with a particularly abstruse tome about the priesthood of the Old Gods on his lap, and now it’s morning, and the person leaning over him is Simon, who looks disgustingly clean and awake. Simon’s hair is still damp from the bath, just barely brushing his collar, and neatly tucked behind his ears (he’ll have run his hands through it at some point by mid-morning); he’s freshly shaven, having missed only a small patch under his jawline (by noon he’ll have stubble again); he’s in a clean tunic, and he carries with him a vague aura of wholesome activity and breakfast. 

Dorian surreptitiously swipes at his mouth to make sure he wasn’t drooling, grimaces at the rumpled state of yesterday’s shirt and coat, which he’s still wearing, and says, “Evidently.” 

Simon’s eyes sparkle. “You know, you do have your own quarters if you didn’t want to come up to mine.” 

Dorian’s stomach lurches for a moment until his sleep-fogged mind realizes the remark was spoken lightly, with no sign of hurt feelings. He takes another moment to gather his faculties, stretching out his stiff legs. He finally says, attempting to recover his dignity, “I was occupied. This book was simply too fascinating, you see.” 

“Mm-hm,” Simon says, and kisses Dorian, in spite of what is probably an unholy case of morning breath. It’s a perfectly splendid kiss, firm and lasting and making Dorian rue spending the night in this chair getting a stiff neck. He blinks up at Simon when the kiss ends, a little dazzled. How thoroughly unfair it is for the man to look this attractive and this alert at an hour like this. It takes Dorian at least half an hour to become presentable in the morning, usually longer. 

Simon never seems to care, however, and something about that makes Dorian’s chest feel tight. 

“I’ve got to run, council meeting,” Simon says, “but breakfast is still on in the hall, and there’s still a bath laid in my quarters if you want it.” **  
**

He kisses Dorian again on the temple, smiles, and is off. Dorian appreciates the view while it lasts and then groans and rubs his bleary eyes, pondering the merits of finding an actual bed and ignoring the fact that it’s day.


	11. Spark

“Does it bother you, what I am?”

Simon blinks. He has been watching Dorian play with the dying fire, making the flames rise and fall in a gentle rhythm. It’s hypnotically soothing, and at the end of a long day, he’d been half asleep already. “Does what bother me? You being Tevinter? Or ridiculously pretty? Because…”

“Me being a mage,” Dorian says.

He sounds pensive, and he did not even fend off the charge of being ridiculously pretty by saying there is no such thing, or anything else clever. Dorian gets this way sometimes, after a few glasses of wine: slightly melancholy, and prone to talking about things he wouldn’t otherwise bring up.

Simon decides to play along. “No. Why should it?”

Dorian’s quiet for a moment. The flames dance, flickering high, and then low. “With what they teach you in the south… It’s different in Tevinter, you know. Oh, people are afraid of powerful mages, and they should be, of course, but nobody thinks twice about displaying their magic. Quite a lot of people flaunt it. There’s magic in the stage shows, and people come out to the Circle to see the enchanters compete with each other. Here in the south, everyone’s so fearful.” He says it with distaste. “I thought at first everyone was afraid of the sinister Tevinter, but it’s not just that. Your mages hesitate, or flinch at their own magic. Even people like Vivienne, sometimes. It truly doesn’t bother you?”

Simon thinks about it, reaching out with one hand to rumple Dorian’s hair and getting a half-hearted grumble for his pains. “No. I should probably be more afraid of magic than I am, to tell the truth.”

The flames in the fireplace twist together, like a rope, spinning in place. “Why aren’t you?”

“Probably because I’m not terribly smart,” Simon says, and twists away when Dorian tries to elbow him in the ribs. “No, now that I think about it… Rory’s magic came in when we were quite young. It should have frightened me, I suppose, the stables caught fire and everything. But I was more curious than anything else. And after that Rory went to the Circle, and everyone told me how dangerous magic was. I’m sure I’d been told that before, but I never was good at listening to our Chantry lessons. They were frightfully dull, I always wanted to know more about Andraste leading a rebellion, and they always wanted to go on about her singing to the Maker. So they told me magic was terrible, but I knew Rory, and I knew Rory hadn’t ever hurt anyone, so magic didn’t seem so bad.” He shrugged.

“You have such faith in people,” Dorian says, wonderingly. A tone like that makes Simon squirm. He’s nothing that special, really.

The fire crackles madly now, the flames nearly as high as the hearth. Simon says, “Just so long as you don’t set the rug on fire again.”

Dorian makes an indignant noise, but the flames fall to normal levels. “That was one time!”

“It was a memorable occasion,” Simon says, grinning, because it was memorable for more reasons than one. He steals a kiss while Dorian is still grumbling.


	12. Freckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has a slightly silly origin. I upgraded my computer midway through the game, which allowed me to take my graphics settings from low to ultra, and in the process discovered that Simon's skin texture had freckles. Who knew? Not me.

The summer sun, high even late into the evening, bathes the Inquisitor’s quarters with light, giving Dorian a grand opportunity to indulge in one of his simplest pleasures: merely watching his lover.

Simon has closed his eyes but is not, Dorian judges, quite asleep, lying with one arm thrown over his head and hair spread loose on the pillow. Against the crisp white linen sheets, he’s richly colored, ruddy brown, dark and solid. Splendidly rounded muscle, naturally, but today Dorian is a little fascinated by the firmly shaped nose and chin, and how the last long days of sunshine have put golden glints in his red-brown hair and darkened the spray of freckles over his cheeks.

Dorian has taken ample opportunities to look at the man’s face, naturally, ever since their first acquaintance. Sometimes surreptitiously, gazing from afar, darting glances when he hopes no one else is looking. He never was discreet enough to avoid starting rumors, but this bright, warm hour is not the time for regrets. Better have been the times they talk, when Dorian pays attention to all the subtle tricks of Simon’s smiles, and the movements of his eyes. Quite a trick, really, to drink it all in while carrying on a witty and pleasant conversation. Dorian should be congratulated for that.

There is a comfortable peace to being able to gaze now, unobserved by anyone, taking in every detail of that face and storing it away against future need.

“I can feel you staring,” Simon says without opening his eyes. “What’s so engrossing?”

 _What isn_ _’t?_ Dorian might ask. Instead he says, “Your freckles.”

“Hm? I haven’t got freckles.”

“I assure you you do.” Dorian had first noticed them quite some time ago, in fact, shortly after they came to Skyhold. Simon had come up to the library for a chat, and the light through the window had played across his face just so, leaving Dorian unexpectedly delighted by the discovery. As if it were a secret he’d learned, or a rare spell he’d mastered.

“How odd I haven’t noticed.”

“They stand out more now.” Dorian reaches out and sweeps his thumb across Simon’s cheekbone, tracing the curl of color. “Gifts of the sun, I suppose.”

Simon chuckles. “Now you’re getting poetic on me.”

“Shall I write you a sonnet? A bit of lyric? A –”

Simon cuts Dorian off by tugging him down, a hand on the back of his neck, for a languid, drawn-out kiss, the kind a long summer evening deserves. “I think there are rather enough songs about me.”

“But not like this,” says Dorian, whose attempts at verse invariably veer toward the bawdy.

His teasing gets the fitting reward of a scowl, mouth twisted and nose scrunched, with the glitter of a glare from half-open eyes.

Dorian laughs, and kisses the freckles instead of indulging in poetry.


	13. Skyhold in the Rain

Autumn rain fell on Skyhold in sheets, out of a sky clotted with clouds, thick gray and swirling. Rain sluiced off peaked roofs and ran in rivulets down stone steps, pooling where hundreds of footfalls had worn grooves in the rock. Water dripped from every curled, drying leaf in the courtyard, filled with a last burst of green before winter’s onslaught.

That onslaught couldn’t be more than a few weeks away, Simon reflected as he handed off his horse to one of Dennet’s stablehands and started toward the great hall, alternately splashing in puddles and sinking into sodden ground with every step. The rain had chased them all the way down from the Storm Coast, it seemed, turning Ferelden’s roads into churned mud: a chilly, damp, irritating ride that had even Harding sighing and grumbling about the wet. Even the best efforts of wool and leather and armor had not kept the entire party from arriving thoroughly damp and bedraggled.

Inside, the fire crackling in the great hearth chased away some of the damp and chill. Skyhold’s hall was its usual bustle of activity. Servants arrived to take Simon’s sodden cloak and other gear. His advisors had reports, he was told, which doubtless included a stack of correspondence in Josephine’s office, but all of it would keep.

Solas was mixing paints as Simon passed through the tower, so deep in concentration he barely responded to Simon’s wave. Simon took the stairs two at a time, shaking off the drops of rain lingering in his hair as he climbed to the library.

Dorian sat ensconced in his usual chair, absently biting on his thumb while frowning at the book in his lap, some unwieldy heavy leather-bound thing with tarnished fittings at the corners. A half-full cup sat at his elbow. As the window next to him rattled in a gust of wind, Dorian picked up the cup, made a face, set it back down, and pointed at it. A moment later a curl of steam rose from the liquid within.

“You know you can get fresh from the kitchen,” Simon said.

Dorian jumped as if stung, shaken out of his tome. “You’re back!”

“Good of you to notice,” Simon replied with a grin. “We thought it best to wrap up our business and be back before the season turned, after last year.” Last year’s first snowfall had blocked the roads to the keep while the Inquisition was still settling in.

“Don’t remind me about last year.” Dorian shuddered. “Waking up with ice on the inside of the windows. Why do people live this far south?”

“It’s not all bad.” Simon leaned over to sniff the contents of the cup. “Mulled wine? See, there’s a benefit of colder weather.”

“Are you _dripping_?”

“It’s raining,” Simon said, amused at the spectacle of Dorian attempting to squirm out of range of any possible drips. He edged closer, for the hell of it.

“You are, and you’re tracking mud in, too.”

“Did I?” Simon glanced back and spotted the telltale tracks of dirt. “Oops.”

“What in the Maker’s name possessed you to come up here without cleaning up?” Dorian demanded, still awkwardly curled into the half of his chair furthest from Simon and his wet clothes.

“You truly can’t think of a reason?” Simon asked, flashing a grin.

“And I’m flattered, truly—”

“And glad to see me?”

“Of course I’m glad to see you, but _look_ at you, in those wet things, surely you’d best get out of them—”

“Yes, I’m sure they’re drawing a bath as we speak.” Simon stood back and crossed his arms.

Dorian paused as that sank in.

“And laying a fire, and sending up wine and whatever there is to eat.”

“Oh, I see,” Dorian said. “I’ll just be finishing up here, then, shall I?”

“If it’s no trouble,” Simon said dryly, stepping back the way he’d come in.

“You still could have simply sent a messenger,” Dorian said.

“That’s not nearly as much fun,” Simon replied, and headed back down the stairs before anyone else caught him tracking mud into the library.


	14. Lakeshore morning

In the old days, Dorian tended to greet mornings more often at the tag-end of a decadent evening than from rising at the first peep of dawn. The Inquisition has forced him to become acquainted with morning, though he still views the hour as a baleful necessity rather than a pleasure.

This morning, he stumbles yawning and bleary out of his tent in the Frostback basin, to find the scouts moving about and talking in low voices, the smell of something stewing over the fire, and Simon perched on a stump and staring out over the swelling waters of the lake.

“Ostwick is by the sea. I’d forgotten how much I liked the waves,” he says by way of explanation, as Dorian approaches.

“Not so much a sea,” Dorian says, viewing the waves rippling across the water with a more jaundiced eye. Crossing the Waking Sea is still a fog of seasickness in his memories.

Simon laughs. “No. It doesn’t smell right at all. No salt or tar or fish guts.”

“Charming,” Dorian says dryly.

“I used to rent rooms in a tavern, to get away from the family a bit. When the wind blew right, you could smell the docks from there. You get used to it,” Simon says with a shrug. “And I even miss it a little, now it’s gone.”

Dorian thinks about the scent of leather and sulfur and scorched linen from a study, mingled with jasmine and olives. “Curious, the things one remembers.”

“The air’s really much fresher here, and the lake is quite lovely.”

“Equally cold, I’ll wager.”

“Mmm, refreshing.”

Dorian shudders. Simon laughs and stands up so he can put an arm around Dorian’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on a dip today.”

“Denying me a show?” Dorian says with mock indignation.

“Now, now, we’ve got a full day’s work of finding bears and scouring ruins ahead of us. Perhaps afterward.” Simon squeezes Dorian’s shoulder and lets go, turning to head back toward the camp.

“My family has a summer house on the shore,” Dorian says, out of some obscure impulse. Exile as he is, he’s hardly in any position to go home himself, much less invite guests. It is pleasant to imagine, however.

“Do you, indeed? Perhaps we can go one day.” Simon says it lightly, joining in the imagined scenario in which there are neither political nor familiar issues to consider.

“No fish gut aroma, though,” Dorian says, lip curling in distaste.

“I suppose I’ll make do,” Simon says, chuckling, and they return to the campfire for breakfast.


	15. Nerterology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation about necromancy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to their early acquaintance for this conversation.

**_Nerterology:_ ** _Learning related to the dead or the underworld_

“Did I correctly hear that you’re reading about necromancy?” Simon asked midway through the morning’s walk.

He wouldn’t have asked, except that Dorian had announced it loudly enough the night before, when Sera asked what he was reading, which had led to Sera yowling in disgust, and a spirited debate about the qualities of various forms of undead, which Varric seemed to have an unhealthy number of opinions about. Rory had blanched and looked at Dorian’s book with distaste, but Simon found himself simultaneously repelled and curious.

“Yes, and what of it?” Dorian replied. He eyed Simon askance. “It’s something of a specialty, I admit it. Does that get me pitched out of the party?”

“Not at all,” Simon said quickly, a little wounded that Dorian might think as much. He had no intention of having that happen, no matter how twitchy anyone else got about Dorian’s presence since he’d arrived a few weeks ago. “I was only wondering, that’s all. I don’t know much about it.”

“Ah.” Dorian seemed slightly mollified. “Wondering what, exactly?”

Simon shrugged. “Well, _why_ , for one thing.”

“Why not? It’s a fascinating branch of study. Too often overlooked,” Dorian said, nose in the air.

“You have to admit the whole messing about with corpses bit sounds a little…”

“A little?” Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“Repulsive?” Simon suggested.

Dorian made an exasperated noise. “It’s not about the corpses.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. Animated corpses are the simplest, most facile result of the art. They’re not even interesting. It’s about…” Dorian paused, eyes narrowing in thought. “It’s about the energy around death.”

Simon frowned. “How’s that?”

“Someone dies, that death plucks at the Veil. Like plucking a lute-string.” Dorian mimed the gesture. “The body’s spirit goes, but the Veil ripples and shudders. You’ve heard this before, yes?”

Rory had explained to Simon before about death and suffering weakening the Veil. “All right,” he said slowly.

“There’s a certain energy to it. Necromancy, at its finest, isn’t about the corpse at all. It’s about harnessing that energy and putting it to use.”

“By scaring the piss out of people?” Simon asked, recalling the screaming of the bandits they’d fought the other day. He’d had to chase down one of them and found the man cowering behind a tree.

Dorian shrugged. “It turns out those particular energies lend themselves to fear and terror, yes. Some books call them spirits, but I think they’re too nebulous for that, not truly aware. They do have a powerful effect. Most people don’t enjoy contemplating the line between life and death.”

Simon thought again of the bandit; the man had seemed so terrified that he’d almost stayed his hand, until he spied Simon and sprang back into battle, teeth bared and wild with fury.

Once upon a time, Simon had never killed anyone. Since the Inquisition, he’d seen a great deal more death. There _was_ something about the moment the life went out of a person’s eyes. He shivered. “I can’t say I blame them.”

“Necromancy yields some useful tricks, all the same,” Dorian said, apparently unperturbed. “Don’t make the mistake of assuming it’s all groaning corpses and skeletons, please.”

“All the same,” Simon said, “if you do get around to animating any corpses, I’d appreciate a warning.”

“As if I’d do anything so common,” Dorian said, flashing a smile.

Simon grinned back and nudged Dorian’s shoulder companionably as they walked down the path.


End file.
